


A Quirk of Fate

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:12:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: For an officer working behind the lines, there are certain things that are vital for success - good intel, good planning, skill, courage, a cool head - those are a few of the things required.  Still, in the long run, everything can depend on a quirk of fate.  Every such officer knew that deep in his bones.  They knew - some missions go as planned, others do not.  Some can be salvaged even when things go wrong.  Others, well . . .





	A Quirk of Fate

It was an elegant affair, the ballroom glistening with lights from the chandeliers above, men in evening clothes or in military uniforms, ladies in modish gowns. That it was also to serve as the meeting place for one civilian and three officers to discuss plans for a new offensive, that was something known only to those involved. Or so they thought. 

They'd taken all precautions; this impressive home wasn't even one that belonged to any of the participants, just one they'd casually asked the owner, a friend, for the loan of his library for a quiet discussion during the upcoming social event. 

That the friend perhaps had OTHER friends, ones with interests not in keeping with their own, they had not taken that into consideration, and the word traveled. Well, those four names WERE rather evocative of important things afoot, being who and what they were. 

So here he was, blond hair shining and in perfect order, charming smile on his handsome face, elegant evening clothes letting him blend in perfectly. He'd stayed away from wearing the foreign uniform; not only would it draw other military men to his side for conversations in which he really could not have upheld his end, there was a slight chance that if this all went wrong, wearing civilian clothes just MIGHT keep him from the firing squad. Possibly, even probably not, but still, it might help.

Still, nothing should go wrong, he reassured himself. There should be nothing to give him away. He spoke the language perfectly, with not a trace of an accent other than what they might expect. He would mix and mingle, be his most delightful best, the perfect guest, until the time came when he saw those four return to the ballroom, when he could be assured the annotated plans were safely tucked away in that supposedly secure and hidden spot in the library on the floor above. Then, a discreet departure from the crowd, a quick pressing of those hidden rosettes that activated the priests' hole concealed in the wall, and he would be gone, his mission complete. 

He was glad it would soon be over. He had never been one for this social posturing, making inconsequential conversation, parading around in stiff evening clothes, not even in private life before the war, and he didn't take any more pleasure in it now. 

Taking another sip of champagne, nodding in calm agreement with some inanity uttered by the self-absorbed couple standing in front of him, he let his sharp eyes survey the room. Then his attention was snared by a waiter handing around a tray of champagne glasses. Something, something . . .

{"Damn!") he thought, catching that flash of awareness, perhaps recognition in the other man's eyes as theirs' almost met, would have met if the other's eyes hadn't slid away so quickly. 

Something had just happened, possibly had gone wrong, but it had all happened too fast to know what it truly was, and that was unfortunate. After all, to understand THAT might just be what kept him alive and let him accomplish his mission.

And, maybe, just maybe, he'd been wrong; maybe that glimpse of sudden awareness hadn't really been there, maybe he'd been mistaken. Or, maybe the awareness had been for something quite different, perhaps only a recognition of the blatant flirting the bejeweled woman in front of him was engaged in. Perhaps it was nothing. It wouldn't do to panic and abandon the mission without knowing for sure. 

The ones who knew him, knew him well, would have laughed at the very idea; he was hardly one to panic. Take wild chances, yes, though he called them 'calculated risks'. Rush in where anyone with any sense would be sitting back waiting for a better opportunity, yes. But panic was no more part of his makeup than heading into an operation without some serious preparation. As he'd tried to impress on his men, once your boots hit the ground even the best plan would more than likely need to be altered, but that was no excuse for not HAVING a plan, and a damned good one, before starting out.

He took his time before letting his eyes trail back to the man in the waiter's uniform, tray of glasses held at just the proper level, offering the tray with just the right manner befitting the occasion. No, nothing untoward there now, just a professional detachment.

{"Maybe I was mistaken; there's nothing there, not now. He's not even looking in my direction. Probably just a trick of the light, nothing more."}. 

Sighing in relief, he quickly placed a congenial smile on his face as he turned back to the lovely lady in the low-cut gown facing him, now leaning a little forward to give him an even better view of her assets, the tall man next to her paying little attention, seemingly more interested in a fluttery brunette a few steps away. {"Perhaps she's NOT his mistress; he's certainly not acting like he resents my attentions to her, or hers to me. Or perhaps she is his mistress and he's just bored with her."}

He made his polite excuses and stepped away, sipped the champagne and wandered the crowded room, made small talk, keeping just the correct expression on his face at all times. Of course, he also made sure to keep an eye out for that waiter, just in case. 

He missed having his team with him, having someone else keeping an eye on things down here while he did the job upstairs. With his team, as talented as they were, he could even have continued the masquerade here, confident that the papers would be skillfully snapped up and in hand before he even departed the room. 

But those in charge had, in their wisdom, insisted this was a one-man operation. Oh, he was quite capable on his own, had run several solo missions, but it wasn't the same as having his men there, knowing they had his back. 

Of course, them not being here meant he didn't have to worry about them, and that was always a bit of a relief too. The big men, the ones who sent them out on the jobs, they'd never understand the inter-reliance, the brotherhood between them. They'd feel it wasn't appropriate for an officer to even consider the others of his team as 'brothers', 'family', but that's what they were. Yes, as risky as this job was, it was something of a relief not to worry about their safety.

It was pure luck that he saw it, was facing just right to spot the quick side and back tilt of the head from that bedamned waiter, clearly beckoning someone from across the room. Now he had no choice. Whatever the man had to say to that unknown observer, whether something as harmless as 'come relieve me, I need a cigarette', or 'he's an imposter, go tell someone', it didn't matter, not now when he was so close. He couldn't take a chance on anything derailing the job, and he'd just seen the officers re-enter the room, which probably meant those plans were now safely back in their cubbyhole in the office upstairs. {"Well, let's hope so; I doubt I'll get more than one chance at them!"}

{"But first that waiter, before he can sound the alarm,"} setting his glass on a table, nodding pleasantly to the older couple he'd been chatting with. If he was mistaken, if the waiter truly had seen nothing, was not going to interfere, well, collateral damage was unavoidable in wartime. He didn't like it, but he accepted the necessity.

As the waiter slid back out through that side door, leaving the tray on the traystand alongside, he was only half a dozen steps behind. The man turned, the beginning of a slight smile and welcoming nod coming to an abrupt halt as he realized this was not who he was expecting. Eyes widening in alarm, mouth opening to call out a summons, a warning, something, hands swung upward in an unsuccessful attempt to try and ward off the hard blow of the statuette that had graced the small alcove inside the door. The statuette met flesh and bone, and the waiter slumped to the floor, blood oozing from his forehead.

Waiting for a moment to be sure the thud hadn't been detected by the crowd on the other side of the wall, he'd reached down to pull the man out of the way, thinking to hide him away in what looked like a closet on the other side of the room. Now, to get to those documents upstairs, and slip away into the night. 

The door behind him opened, a brisk voice, "what's the matter, Goniff? Don't tell me you're fed up with rustling drinks already?" 

He swung around, to find himself face to face with a young man in military dress, one of a rank similar to his own when he actually WORE a uniform, though for a different country of course. The other officer took in the scene with one sharp green-eyed glance, and he knew he was only a hair's distance away from death. The quick flicker of the other's eyes to the silent form on the floor and back wasn't enough to let him make a move, especially with the deep rage he saw in those eyes. A jerk of that revolver that had seemingly appeared from nowhere, a hard "move away from him, NOW!" left no room for arguing.

A sharp two-note whistle and three other men rushed into the room, one in the uniform of a waiter, like the man unconscious on the floor, one dressed as a chauffeur, and another in elegant evening clothes. One demanding jerk of the head and a taut "Actor!" had the man in evening clothes kneeling beside the bleeding figure, and then "he will have a rather remarkable headache, Craig, but there is no major damage done, I believe. An inch to the side, that would be a different story."

A sigh of relief came from all of the others, including the man with the gun.

And Oberleutnant Alrick Lindhorst looked into the fierce, but perhaps no longer deadly, eyes of Lieutenant Craig Garrison, and slowly raised his hands. It was over, all due to a quirk of fate. Whether it would be internment or the firing squad or the hangman's noose, that would be up to his captors. For him, in any case, the war was over.

***

Lieutenant Craig Garrison sat in the darkness, the drink he'd poured two hours ago sitting on the desk, still untouched. The door to his office remained closed. The affair with Lindhorst had sat heavily on his shoulders, for more than one reason. For one thing, he was mightily annoyed, no, not annoyed, he was angry as hell at HQ for sending him and his team into that situation with such a casual, total misleading explanation. 

"Just a precaution, with Lord Morton being there. We would have our usual security deal with it, but something else came up, and since you and your men were here in London on leave, well, it seems to be ideal. Just a social gathering, you know, nothing special. I'm sure you'll find some way to rig them out properly. Just keep a general eye on the area and the people in attendance, Garrison; I doubt there'll be anything, but we do have to maintain the formalities. Be on your way back to your frivolity as soon as the gathering is over, I'm sure."

Not a mention, not even the faintest hint of a top-level, top-secret meeting between Lord Morton and the other men, equally well known. Not a mention of the plans for a new offensive in the concealed safe above stairs. Not a mention of the other security details stationed here and there. A major offensive, THAT'S what the 'social' meeting was about, and if that was 'usual', then he had a bridge somewhere in the Mojave he'd like to sell them. Actually, remembering Goniff laying there, blood streaming over his face, pooling under his head, he had a bridge he'd like to ram . . . 

He reached for his glass, remembering his instructions to the pickpocket and his wheelman, both tasked with wearing those waiters uniforms and passing around drinks. 

"I'm not sure what we're supposed to be looking for in the ballroom, so just keep your eyes peeled. Give me a sign if you see anything off, have to step away for a few minutes, even if you just need a break."

He cursed to himself now for being all the way on the other side of the ballroom when he'd caught Goniff's quick signal, for not coming through that door in time to grab that statuette before it made contact; hell, just cursed in general. Yes, Goniff had seen something, though he couldn't describe it any better than "looked almost like you do, ya know, w'en you're working a con. Just something. . . "

The door swung open, Actor standing there, silhouetted against the light in the hall. 

"Still brooding, I see. I've been delegated to collect you AND the bottle you keep in your desk and bring you both to the Common Room."

"I'm not in the mood . . ."

"Yes, I can see that, but that isn't the point, Craig. The men need you there, as much as they need the bottle, though they will perhaps not be so open to telling you that. And Goniff is fretting."

Garrison's head snapped up, "is he okay?"

"Well, the headache is finally going away, although the bruising is still quite colorful, but Patrick did a very nice job with the stitches. But he is worried about you. Well, you know how he gets. If you don't come, spend the evening with us, he is going to worry himself right back into a major headache, and I know you don't want that."

Garrison stared then huffed. "I think that is called coercion, Actor. There's probably something in the regulations against using those tactics on your commanding officer."

"Yes, I am sure there is. Come, now, get the bottle. Casino is getting the cards, and he promises they will be unmarked, though I would not place too much reliance on that, if I were you. He may get the idea it would cheer you up to yell at him, you now."

There was silence, then Garrison heaved back his chair, reached into the drawer and pulled out a new bottle, what not just the men termed 'the good stuff', not the military issue not-quite-poison bottle that he had poured that drink from. {"Thank heavens Meghada decided to share some of that latest shipment she got from her family!"}

He paused, looking up at the man standing there, patiently waiting. He wasn't quite sure how to explain the funk he was in, but needed to try.

"It's not just HQ and their games. It's not even Goniff getting hurt, me not getting there in time to prevent it." He paused. "It could have BEEN me, could have been US, Actor. I don't know that it ever really . . . "

"Yes, it was very much our type of operation, was it not? Very much like the ones they've sent you on alone as well. We ALL are very aware of that, Craig. That's why they need you with them now. It is also why you need to be with them, with us. It is also why we need you NOT to do solo missions anymore. We need you far too much to be that far away if it goes wrong."

"Richards will try to protect you if that happens, you know that. And Meghada . . ."

Actor shook his head, "no, Craig. That's not the point. We will worry about our fates should something happen, yes. The point is, we need YOU, and it is more than time for you to accept that; it is not that you do not KNOW it, of course, but truly letting yourself accept? That you also need to do, now. And it starts with you and that bottle and a game of cards and a very deliberate ignoring of the usual lights-out warning."

And Garrison let himself be led upstairs, where the round table was set with glasses, chairs pulled up, and the others waiting. He'd given a rueful smile to each of them, Actor watching with a knowing look on his face.  
-Chief, calmly waiting;  
-Casino busy shuffling that deck of cards, telling Goniff, "hell yeah, I'm gonna be the one shuffling those cards! Don't think I'm gonna let YOU get your fingers on them, do you? And don't give me that innocent look. You getting bashed don't mean your fingers stopped working!"  
-Goniff, that bruise discoloring his forehead and cheek, blue eyes anxious searching his. 

"You okay then, Warden?" their resident pickpocket and mother hen asked anxiously.

Garrison took another look around, coming back to those blue eyes, smiling down, getting a relieved smile in return. 

"I will be, Goniff. After a drink or two, and after winning back some of the money I laid out for the breakage down at the pub last month. Maybe I'll try and leave you enough for an extra pack of cigarettes, but no promises."

That challenge got a joyful hoot from the others, and they settled around the table. 

Yes, it could have been Garrison, could have been them. But it wasn't, not this time, and with any luck, maybe it wouldn't be. Maybe Fate would smile on them and they would get through this, together.

 

 

 

 


End file.
